


Much Has Gone, Little Is New

by Little_Cello



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-03-11
Packaged: 2017-11-26 06:54:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/647788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Cello/pseuds/Little_Cello
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam is hit by a car and wakes up... far far back, in the golden era of pirates! How will he cope?</p>
<p>
  <i>The first thing he noticed as being off, strangely, was the fact that his head was itching terribly. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This one was inspired by a very dear friend, whose ideas I was kindly allowed to use and turn into a fic! Definitely more humorous than my other one. I'm no good with research (firstly lack the time, secondly lack the patience), so please bear with any inconsistencies.
> 
> Title was inspired by the lyrics of David Bowie's song "Cygnet Committee".

The pain of the impact only lasted for a moment. When Sam hit the tarmac, his body was already numb with shock.

 

He had only wanted to step out for a moment to compose himself,collect his thoughts. But Maya was all he could think of.

 

As Sam lay motionless on the street, any coherent thoughts scattering quickly, leaving him blissfully unfocused and blank, Sam thought he heard a faint whooshing sounds, like waves of a distant ocean... But that would be ridiculous... Sailors fighting in the dance hall... Port of Amsterdam... No, there was no port, just... just...

 

Just what?

 

“ _We're losing him!”_

 

“ _C'mon Sam, hang in there!”_

 

“ _It was just a hit to the 'ead, it can't 'ave –“_

 

“ _Yeah, tell 'im that when 'e wakes up, why don't ye!”_

 

Tell him what?

 

“ _Sam, stay with us!”_

 

“ _Sir, wake up, we need you!”_

 

No, don't... want to sleep...

 

“ _Try again!”_

 

“ _Sir, we'll shortly be under attack!”_

 

Under attack?

 

Sam opened his eyes and sat up abruptly, very nearly head-butting the man who had hovered above him. As the former jumped back with a yelp, Sam blinked rapidly to clear away the haze that was still clouding his perception. The first thing he noticed as being off, strangely, was the fact that his head was itching terribly. Something about this was decidedly wrong, but for the life of him Sam couldn't figure out what. Even when his vision finally cleared, it did nothing to explain his situation.

 

He was staring at two men in strange garbs, and it took Sam a few seconds to identify them as historic uniforms used by the navy. The next thing he noticed was their bad smell. Furthermore, as he lifted his hand up to his head, he realised he must be wearing a wig, and that beneath it there was a sizeable bump. He had probably sustained it during the... during the...

 

“... car accident.” Sam muttered, his eyes narrowing with confusion.

 

The two men glanced at each other, then the one who had nearly been knocked out earlier said, “Sir?”

 

But Sam ignored him, staring off into space.

 

He had been in an accident. A car accident. He'd been lying on the ground. He had closed his eyes. And then...

 

It didn't make any sense. He had been hit by a car, and yet here he was, uninjured apart from the bump, and why the hell were the paramedics garbed in period costumes?! Sam blinked once, very deliberately, hoping that it would all be gone when he opened his eyes again, but of course it wasn't that easy. The sailors were still eyeing him wearily, and now he noticed that the world was rocking and swaying.

 

Sam swallowed, then asked with raspy voice, “Where... am I?”

 

The sailors shot each other a glance again, clearly quite worried and out of their depth. Sam was about to convince himself that he was simply hallucinating and that they were indeed paramedics, when the first one said, “Aboard the _Justice_ , sir, and with respect sir, pirates are closing in, we need orders. Sir.”

 

Ship. Pirates. Attack. Sir.

 

Suddenly, Sam felt very light-headed.

 

Before any of them could say another word, though, there was the sound of a massive explosion, and at the same time the cabin rocked violently, practically throwing Sam out of the cot he'd been lying in. There was a burst of action around him; he could hear many boots running this way and that, voices yelling, and when he looked up he found that the two men had left him as well. They had left the door open. Sam scrambled to his feet and, unsteady as he was, tried to make his way towards it, but another series of impacts threw him off balance again and he painfully hit the wall.

 

Rising above the chaos, Sam could distinctly hear a shout.

 

“Don't move! You're surrounded by armed bastards!”

 

Finally, he managed to drag himself towards the door and glance outside. What he saw left him nauseous and with a feeling of disbelieving terror.

 

Sam was indeed aboard a ship, a magnificent one with three masts, the sails sporting the emblem of the royal navy. It must've been the pride and joy of the fleet. At that moment, though, it was being entered and properly pillaged by pirates.

 

Sam stared with wide eyes as the soldiers ( _his_ soldiers?) were being driven back and huddled into a corner of the deck, with rough men threatening them using sabres and ancient fire guns. A large man was shouting orders and knocking out navy men at the same time, and altogether doing an amazing job of overpowering a force larger than his own. Sam found himself faintly wondering why the navies were acting like headless chicken. A small voice in the back of his mind told him that they were waiting for _his_ orders, but he shook his head to chase it away.

 

The same booming voice rang out again, and Sam realised that it belonged to the man he had been observing – the pirate captain, apparently. “Right you lot! You've been entered fair 'n square, and ye'll kindly keep your arses put right there while we gather our loot. Then ye will kindly move yer sorry arses into the life boats and bugger off. Any objections will be ignored. We won't hurt ye, unless –“

 

“TIMBER!”

 

All heads swivelled around and up, Sam's included. He watched with a strange fascination as the smallest mast slowly tilted, then toppled over, crashing right into the second one. The sound of creaking and bursting wood, along with tearing cloth, was deafening. Sam saw logs fly around, saw loosened ropes lash out, and knew inevitably what was going to happen, and he could do bugger all to stop it.

 

He thought, _Not again._

 

Then the force of a terrible impact drove all air out of his lungs, and he realised he was being catapulted through the air before something collided with his head.

 

Sam was unconscious even before he hit the wooden tiles.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes Gene thought that they were doing it on purpose – his crew, that is. He knew that they all were loyal to him, having joined him of their own free will, and he could smell traitors five miles against the wind anyway. They followed his orders without question, and usually did a decent enough job.
> 
>  But sometimes – sometimes it seemed as though they had replaced their brains with rotten jellyfish. This was one of those times, apparently.

Sometimes Gene thought that they were doing it on purpose – his crew, that is. He knew that they all were loyal to him, having joined him of their own free will, and he could smell traitors five miles against the wind anyway. They followed his orders without question, and usually did a decent enough job.

 

But sometimes – sometimes it seemed as though they had replaced their brains with rotten jellyfish. This was one of those times, apparently.

 

Even while the mast came crashing down, Gene reflexively started shouting orders. “To the lifeboats! Ray, Glen, get 'em all to the lifeboats, _pronto!_ ”

 

At first glance the damage wouldn't look so bad, but Gene hadn't spent decades at sea for nothing. He knew that the ship would inevitably sink, and quite suddenly at that, and if they hesitated or dawdled now it would take them all down to the bottom of the ocean.

 

Thankfully his men were keeping their wits together, and the navy weren't as dopey as they seemed either. While Gene's crew retreated to the _Tina_ , the soldiers evacuated within minutes, valuing their own lives over petty enmities or orders from above.

 

Speaking of which – as the last boat was lowered into the water, Gene realised that the captain of the _Justice_ had kept surprisingly silent. He scoffed; had the bastard gone over board first thing at the attack?

 

“Guv!” came a yell from the _Tina;_ Skelton was waving frantically from the deck. “We're off!”

 

Gene nodded curtly and threw one last glance back over the deck of the navy ship – and saw a hand sticking out from under a large piece of torn sail.

 

After a second of shock, Gene jumped down to the lower deck and made his way over to the captain's cabin, swearing heartily in the process. The deck was a mess of tangled ropes and beams by now, and as he hurried over to the body, Gene very nearly managed to strangle himself at one point.

 

Finally he was able to take hold of the cloth and pulled it away, revealing that the hand was still safely attached to a small man dressed in a poncy black uniform, and bleeding quite spectacularly from a cut on his forehead. However, a quick check of breath and pulse told Gene that apart from the obvious, the man was perfectly fine, physically at least. Crouching next to him, Gene quickly considered his options. The lifeboats were gone, and none of the navies seemed to have missed the unconscious man, which somehow puzzled him. If the man was indeed the captain of the _Justice_ \- and the uniform seemed to suggest so – then he might cause trouble later on...

 

… but that definitely wasn't a reason for the Gene Genie to leave a man to die.

 

With one swift motion, Gene scooped the man up and flung him unceremoniously over his shoulder, momentarily surprised by how light he was. More careful than before, he picked his way back to the stern, where they had seized the _Justice_. Above them, Gene could feel the rigging shift slowly, but steadily. Not much time left.

 

When he finally reached the railing, it was Ray who immediately threw him one of the ropes that were attached to the _Tina_ 's main-mast's yard. Gene readjusted his grip on the unconscious man – it wouldn't do to drop him into the water while swinging over to the other ship.

 

“Ye better be worth this much trouble, mate,” he muttered, probing the stability of the knot with several rough yanks. For a moment, Gene thought he heard a weak groan from the man in response, but then there was the far louder groan of shifting wood, and he had to act.

 

Deftly gripping the rope, Gene swung over to the _Tina_ , who was already swivelling round to get away from the sinking ship in time. Her captain landed on deck with a heavy thud, stumbling for a moment from the extra weight on his shoulder. His crew clapping and cheering upon his arrival, Gene let the man slide down onto the floor roughly, then straightened his back with a grunt.

 

“Somebody get this ponce out o' me sight, and 'ave Phyllis check on 'im. Might be worth a ransom, if we're lucky.” The men around him fell silent at this, noticing the dangerous tone in his voice. And rightly so; Gene wasn't pleased with the outcome of this raid, at all. He glowered at them for another moment before bellowing, “Well, what're ye waitin' for?! Vince, Pat, get on with it.”

 

As the two hurriedly obeyed and picked up the unconscious man to bring him to the infirmary, Gene fixed the rest of his crew with his glare.

 

“Right! So whose bloody brilliant idea was it to bring down the bleedin' mast in the middle o' me speeh? C'mon, don't be shy, out with it!”

 

After a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, Skelton slowly shuffled forward – just as Gene had secretly suspected.

 

“Skelton, what a surprise! Care to share yer unquestionably sound reasons for such a brainless action?”

 

“ 'twas an accident, Guv,” the young man muttered, looking up for help from Ray, who nodded.

 

Gene merely raised an eyebrow.

 

“It weren't me fault!” Chris insisted, gaining courage it seemed – or just wanting to escape his captain's glare as fast as possible. “The navies set up a trap, they did, meant t' let the mast smash the ship! They'd already started sawin' it off an' everythin'. Ray 'n' me fought 'em off, but, but I think I hit the mast or summat...”

 

“Sea gull's fart would've brought that thing down, Guv,” Ray put in.

 

Gene regarded them wordlessly for a little while, just long enough to make even Ray shift nervously.

 

“I see,” he finally said, lifting the tension of the situation. “Well, since nobody got hurt – not seriously at least – I guess we should all be thankful for Her Majesty's forces' inability, which 'as been proven amply today. Chris, do us all a favour an' stay away from the masts for a while, wouldn't want ye to try an' practice yer aim.”

 

As laughter rippled over the deck, Gene raised his voice, “And now, back to yer posts, ye slackers! Let's make for port!”

 

“Aye aye, Guv!” was the prompt response, and the _Golden Tina_ 's deck burst into activity. Gene strode through it all confidently, making his way to the steering wheel to get the ship on course. Some might argue that a ship's captain shouldn't be the helmsman at the same time, but he'd be damned if he'd let any other man sail the _Tina._

 

***

When Gene later approached the door of Phyllis's inner sanctum, the sickroom, he suddenly wasn't sure what he expected to find. Surely the bloke simply was an unlucky navy ponce – it probably had been his first cruise, even. Would he cooperate willingly?

 

His musings were interrupted by none other than the ship's doctor herself, Phyllis Dobbs. As foul as her temper usually was, she still by far did the best job out of all the quacks Gene had seen in his life. The moment she spotted him, the woman straightened up and stabbed a finger at his chest.

 

“Since when 'ave we become bloody charity, Hunt?! Lads like 'im need t' be home with their mothers, not on board a bloody pirate ship!”

 

“Found 'im 'fore we 'opped off, couldn't well leave 'im,” Gene retorted, already used to the banter they regularly exchanged. He peered past Phyllis into the cabin, but could only make out the man's legs. “How is 'e?”

 

Phyllis snorted. “He'll pull through, 's just a bump to the 'ead. A good un though, no wonder 'e's knocked out. Wouldn't be surprised if it rattled 'is brains up good.” She stepped to the side, allowing the captain in. He nodded and walked past her, up to the cot.

 

Even now, the man looked very slim and pale, and somehow out of place. Phyllis had removed the poncy wig, to reveal a ridiculously short and strangely _correct_ haircut.

 

“Ever seen 'im before?” Gene asked, glancing at the doctor.

 

She shook her head. “No, never. Some upstart 'oo climbed ranks recently, I reckon.”

 

A low moan made them both turn their heads back to the man on the cot. He was shifting, his face wrinkled up into a massive frown. Gene figured that the lad didn't know what had hit him, quite literally.

 

“You watch over 'im, I'll get the little sod some water, he'll need it,” Phyllis said, and left Gene on his own in the sickroom.

 

A few seconds passed before the man shook his head weakly, cracked open his eyes, and attempted to sit up.

 

“Where...” he murmured, blinking rapidly.

 

Gene, having crossed his arms, said, “Aboard the _Golden Tina_ , fastest ship of the seven oceans, sonny.”

 

The man turned his head to look at him with a mixture of confusion and... and something Gene couldn't quite decipher.

 

“But... but 'ow....” Disbelief. And something else still.

 

“We captured yer ship. Care to tell me yer name?”

 

“Sam... Sam Tyler,” the man replied absent-mindedly, and continued to mutter under his breath. Gene couldn't understand what he was saying, apart from a few words, and even those presented a riddle to him. What the hell was a “car accident”?

 

Suddenly, Tyler's head snapped up, and he stared at Gene as if he was seeing him only now. “What year is it?”

 

Gene snorted. What sort of question was that? “It's 1773, almost time for lunch. I'm 'avin' fish soup.”

 

He wouldn't have thought it possible, but Tyler suddenly went even paler. After a long silence, he started to stutter.

 

“That... that's impossible. I, I had an accident, in 2006 --”

 

Ah. Sea-mad.

 

Gene stopped listening.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1773\. Impossible. He refused to accept that. He bloody refused to!

 When Sam woke up, the first thought which crossed his mind was, _That's the last time Maya dragged me off to watch “Pirates of the Caribbean” three times in a row._

 

He then wondered for a little while why he had even thought that, and why his bed was so hard. Then he thought, _No, not bed. Tarmac._ He had been hit by a car.

 

And then... then he had woken up on a ship. And...

 

… no good, he couldn't make any sense of it. Sam shook his head slightly, and immediately winced as a sharp pain shot through his skull. _Better get my bearings..._ Gingerly, Sam sat up, muttering to himself, “Where...”

 

The reply came promptly. “Aboard the _Golden Tina_ , fastest ship on the seven oceans, sonny.”

 

Sam experienced a terrible sense of déjà-vu.

 

Slowly turning his head towards the man who had spoken – a large, broad-shouldered fellow dark-ish blond hair and a penetrating gaze – Sam tried to bring order into the thoughts and images tumbling through his mind.

 

“But... but 'ow...” he stammered, unable to believe what he was seeing. This man as well was dressed in a period costume, though less gaudy than the other two who had greeted him before. Was he still dreaming, then?

 

“We captured yer ship. Care to tell me yer name?”

 

For a moment, he feared he wouldn't remember. But ah, there it was.

 

“Sam... Sam Tyler,” he said, his thoughts already drifting off. Once more, from the beginning: He had been driving his car. He had gotten out of the car. He... he had been _hit_ by a car. A car accident. And now he was... Aboard a ship, in....

 

Sam looked up abruptly, staring at the man who was standing there and observing him with an entirely unreadable expression.

 

 _When_ was he, even?

 

“What year is it?”

 

His opposite snorted, and for a moment Sam really, _really_ thought it would all turn out to be a bad bad joke someone had played on him.

 

“It's 1773, almost time for lunch. I'm 'avin' fish soup.”

 

It felt as if that car had hit him again.

 

“That... that's impossible. I had an accident, in 2006 – the year 2006, a car hit me, I... I can't...” Sam was fighting for words, and thought how absurd this entire situation was. This had to be a dream, surely – although everything felt (and _smelled_ ) terribly real... But it couldn't possibly be.

 

Sam suddenly felt sick as the large man's words finally started to sink in properly.

 

1773\. Impossible. He refused to accept that. He bloody _refused_ to!

 

Sickness and fear slowly transformed into anger, and with an abrupt motion Sam threw back the thin blanket which had been covering him. His attempt to stand up, however, was thwarted by two occurrences: One, his head started to hurt and spin, and Sam gave a little gasp of surprise and pain. Two, the man was now towering right above him, pushing him back onto the cot.

 

“ 'ere, ye been clonked o'er the 'ead good, shouldn't get up yet.”

 

Sam tried to push the man away, but he could as well have attempted to move a mountain. And the headache didn't seem inclined to let up any time soon either, which made him all the more irritable.

 

“Lie down, that's an order.” the man commanded, pushing down harder, but Sam still stubbornly resisted.

 

“Who the hell're you to order me 'round?!” he spat, trying to swat away the man's hands.

 

And suddenly he was up and painfully pinned against the wall, held there by the lapels of his shirt. The other man's face was dangerously close to his own, chin raised slightly, mouth pulled into a snarl.

 

“I'm Gene Hunt, captain of this ship and the man 'oo saved yer sorry arse, so you'll ruddy well do as I say! Is that clear?!”

 

His breath really smelled foul, Sam thought as he tried to keep his head from spinning, with little success. He blinked rapidly to clear his vision, but then Hunt shook him roughly. “I said, _is that clear_!?”

 

Sam kept his mouth tightly shut – not in order to spite Hunt, but because he genuinely feared that whatever was left in his stomach would come straight up should he so much as part his lips. Some of his misery must have shown on his face for the larger man suddenly let go as though he had burned his hands. Sam slowly slid down the wall, swallowing dryly and desperately trying to regain control over his body. If this was a dream, why was his subconscious trying to make him feel as miserable as possible?!

 

Just when he had caught his breath, a new voice snapped Sam out of his train of thoughts and made him look up sharply – not a wise move, that. The world started to spin anew every time he blinked, but he still could make out the person briskly moving towards them.

 

“Oh fer God's sake, Guv, make up yer ruddy mind. Leavin' 'im on that ship would've gotten 'im down Davy Jones' Locker faster an' more efficiently than ye dealin' with 'im.”

 

With some effort, Sam managed to force the world back into balance. Just when he looked up again, something wet and cold hit his face full-on, and as he flinched back he was sightless once more. “Put that on the bump, should 'elp,” the same voice instructed gruffly, and he realized only now that this was a woman talking. As he reached up and discovered the offending floppy object to be a wet cloth, he heard heavy footsteps moving away, and with them Hunt's oppressive presence.

 

“Merely cleared up a few points,” the man curtly replied. The answer he received was a sceptical snort, and as Sam moved the rag up to his forehead, he could finally see this newcomer who apparently was able to stand up to Captain Hunt just fine. The woman was now kneeling down right in front of him, staring straight into his eyes. Sam stared back, taking in the lined, hard face, the tied-back brown hair and the sharp gaze. He came to the conclusion that of all the ships to land on in this nightmare. He had apparently chosen the one with the most terrifying, battle-hardened crew, if even the women were like... _that_.

 

She somehow must have read his mind, for the woman scowled even more as she stood back up. “Caught yerself a right insolent little navy ponce, Hunt.”

 

The captain snorted in response, “Sea-addled, that one.”

 

“I'm not.”

 

Both Hunt and the woman turned to look at Sam, mildly surprised and less mildly annoyed.

 

“I mean. I'm not navy.” Sam fiddled with the cloth on his head, but met their gazes without wavering. “I'm not... a captain, or even a sailor. I... God, this is ridiculous.” He laughed suddenly, at the two standing in front of him, at the situation, at himself, at his overly creative mind. Sam pushed himself up onto his feet, supporting himself against the wall. “I'm a ruddy police officer , a DCI, and I was run over by a car, and now I'm here.” He laughed again, and thought that his voice had adopted a slightly hysteric edge. “I'm making all of this up! I must say, my mind really is going to some length to - -”

 

He was interrupted by a sudden rush of cold water hitting his face, and he gasped with shock and surprise.

 

“Told ya. Sea-mad.” Hunt said, matter-of-factly.

 

**

 

“So basically, ye don't remember a thing about bein' a navy.”

 

They were up on deck now; the woman – Phyllis Dobbs, ship medic – had decided that Sam wasn't sea-mad, but merely needed to recover from his head wound and thus needed lots of fresh air. Neither man had dared to disagree.

 

His rough shirt still soaked, Sam stared at the ocean, stretching endlessly before his eyes. The crew behind his back were constantly shouting, but nothing seemed out of order, so he had tuned them out soon.

 

It was a lot harder to tune out Gene Hunt, though.

 

He was standing next to Sam now, and for a moment they both glanced at each other out of the corners of their eyes. Then am sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I'm tellin' you, I'm not a sailor at all. Can't tell starboard from portside...”

 

“So which's which?”

 

“Starboard's left an'...”

 

Sam trailed off, a frown appearing on his face. _How..._ He looked up abruptly. “I don't - -” His eyes met Hunt's, who displayed a small smirk.

 

“Yer mind's been rattled good back there. Those memories'll be comin' back faster than a canon ball.”

 

“Look, I.. I swear, I'm not, I've never been in the navy. I 'ave no idea 'ow I ended up on that ship...” Sam lowered his gaze. He still was wearing the black trousers, but they were uncomfortably tight. The shirt was slightly better, though terribly scratchy. He had actually quite liked the jacket, but seeing as it was navy uniform, he had been more than hesitant to wear it on board a pirate ship.

 

The silence between them stretched to a point where Sam thought the captain had quietly left; however, when he raised his head again, he found that Hunt's scrutinizing gaze still was locked on him. A few more seconds passed, and then he seemed to have come to a conclusion.

 

“Alright then, Tyler. Navy or not, yer a stranded man. I'll let ye ride along till we make port again.” He paused for a moment, maybe waiting for a reaction, but Sam merely looked at him blankly. “ 'course, this ain't just a jolly trip, so ye'll ruddy well make yerself useful.”

 

“But I told you...”

  
“Else Phyllis 'erself will send ye down to Davy Jones.”

 

Sam swallowed. “... right. Got it.” _This is just a dream... Maybe I'll wake up if I play along..._

 

“ 'scuse me, I didn't quite catch that.” Hunt leaned in as though he were deaf. Sam frowned, but then he understood. _Right. Pirates._

 

“Aye aye, Captain.”

 

That still didn't satisfy Hunt, though. “I'm no Captain, matey. The orphans take whatever they can get, so I look after 'em. This ship is my kingdom, an' I'm it's guv'nor.”

 

Sam looked at Hunt wordlessly, wondering whether or not he should point out that the man had introduced himself as “captain of this ship” before... but in the end he deemed it wiser not to say a word about that.

 

A humourless chuckle escaped his lips. _Play along._

 

“Aye aye... guv.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At first, Gene had been absolutely sure that Tyler was a navy captain with a more or less severe case of amnesia, but soon he realized that there had to be far more to the man than that.

Gene had seen a lot in his life. He had sailed the oceans in all possible directions; he had gone to port far east as well as far south, and even had dared to take course up north. He had witnessed the red-skins' rituals (too much smoke for his tastes) in America, he had fought battles against admirals with the thickest rods up their jacksies, and he had dined with captains from the Orient who kept their entire harems aboard their luxurious vessels (way too much trouble, that – pleasing them all properly must be one hell of a job). Gene thought he knew how to deal with even the most outlandish sort of men.

 

He had no idea what to make of Sam Tyler, though. The lad put all nutcases Gene had ever met to shame. At first, Gene had been absolutely sure that Tyler was a navy captain with a more or less severe case of amnesia, but soon he realized that there had to be far more to the man than that. He acted as though he had never been aboard a galley at all, as though he were seeing everything for the first time. His head wound had long but healed (Phyllis had made sure of that, despite her protestations – Gene suspected that the lad's behaviour had woken unknown... motherly... instincts within her, as far-fetched as that might sound), and yet he still jumped at any shouted command, stumbled whenever a wave rocked the ship, and fed the fish every time the wind freshened up a bit. Landlubber Sam, they'd come to call him. How the man had ended up in the navy uniform aboard the navy vessel was a complete mystery to Gene. Either the navy really were getting dopier by the second (a plausible explanation as far as he was concerned), or... well. Frankly, Gene didn't have the faintest. And he had better things to do than ponder over loopy Sam Tyler.

 

He had called together Ray, Glen and Chris, especially the first being the closest Gene had as a first mate. He had never officially appointed one, hadn't felt the need. The Gene Genie was all he needed to trust in, refusing to give command to any other man, not even hypothetically. The _Tina_ was, and forever would be, _his_ ship to command.

 

“Listen up, we're gonna hit port in a matter of hours, got to stock up some. I want you lads t'go 'n sniff about a bit, nudge the snouts, see if y'can't pick up news 'bout a navy pig gone missin'.”

 

“Tyler?” Ray asked, raising his eyebrows knowingly.

 

Gene nodded, leaning forward and resting his hands on the table, brushing away a few charts. “For all we know 'e's really just out o' the loop an' simply needs ter rearrange 'is cups. Last thing we need on board is a navy sod suddenly rememberin' 'is duties.”

 

“Could be fun though,” Ray put in with a grin, but Gene paid him no mind.

 

“The more we know 'bout 'im, the better. Make sure 'e doesn't realize what yer doin', though.” He pushed himself away from the desk now, glowering at them one after another. “An' while yer at it, I want all y'can get on that bastard Trent. 's about time we got to 'im.”

 

“Aye aye, guv,” said Chris, and the other two nodded as well. With a motion of his head, Gene dismissed them from his cabin. When he was alone, he slowly walked to the back of the room, where a large piece of parchment hung. On a navy vessel, it probably would have depicted a chart of the world; Gene however had once “persuaded” an artist to paint a triumvirate consisting of Black Sam Bellamy, Edward “Blackbeard” Teach and Bartholomew “Black Bart” Roberts. He liked the painting, it helped him think. Picking up Tyler, he realized now, had distracted him from his original goal: To restock so that they would be able to hunt down Kim Trent, may Davy Jones get him. Bastard was fast, so having the right amount of supplies was vital if it came down to a long chase across the oceans. He had been on his little pillaging spree for the longest time, and Gene was royally annoyed over that. It was time to put an end to Trent's shenanigans, once and for all.

 

A knock at the door, soft and yet firm at the same time, interrupted Gene in his musing. His head jerked to the side, but he didn't turn around fully. Nobody _ever_ knocked on the door to his cabin, his crew knew not to disturb him when he was in there. Which could only mean...

 

“Get in 'ere,” Gene called, somehow concealing his growing irritation. The door opened a moment later, revealing Sam Tyler, just as he had suspected.

 

“Mis-... er. Guv. Can I have a word?”

 

Gene regarded him silently before beckoning him in, and watched as Tyler shuffled in, wearily, on guard. Again, something he had noticed during the last few days sprang to Gene's attention: Tyler had a most peculiar way of looking completely out of place. The man swayed slightly as the ship rocked, but finally steadied himself enough to say, “I know you probably want to get rid of me as soon as possible, but... er, once we reach port..” Tyler was struggling for words there, and Gene said nothing, waiting for the man to continue. “... I, there's a chance – a big chance, in fact – that, that I won't find out anythin'. About me. 'ow to get home.”

 

Here Gene rolled his eyes. That was another thing: Tyler's insisting that he didn't “belong here”. Gene hadn't forgotten the nonsense the man had sprouted right after waking up, that stuff about the year 2006 (rich, that), and an “accident”. He had put that down to the hit on the head; he had heard people say worse things after such an injury. But even after recovering, Tyler insisted that he had to “get home”, wherever “home” was. And until a little while ago, he had seemed very intent on leaving the ship as soon as possible, bugging Chris and even Phyllis over how far from port they were and when they finally would arrive.

 

“Cut to the chase, Tyler,” Gene growled, crossing his arms as he shifted his weight slightly.

 

The man opened his mouth – and closed it again, shaking his head. Christ, not even Chris was that dozy. “Go on then Gladys, I 'aven't got all day!”

 

Something flared in Tyler's usually quite lifeless eyes, but when he finally continued, his voice sounded no different than before: “Would you consider waiting for me?”

 

“You what?”

 

“At the port. If I don't find anythin'.” Tyler took a deep breath, now shamelessly exploiting that Gene was at a loss of words. “I 'ave nowhere else to go. If I can't find any leads, any clues, would you... could I...” He trailed off, muttering “God, this is ridiculous” under his breath. Before Gene could say something, however, Tyler finally blurted out, “Could I stay? I mean, er, join your, uh, crew. Properly.”

 

As Tyler exhaled as though he had been holding his breath, silence fell between them. Gene felt the urge to laugh, but maintained a straight face. Tyler was serious about his request, so he deserved a serious answer.

 

“No.”

 

Tyler's face fell (if that was even possible, as sullen as he always looked). “Why not?”

 

Gene untangled his arms and rested his left hand on the hilt of his trusty sabre. “I know ye insist yer from some place far away, for all we know ye still could be a navy nonce with memory loss.” Though that possibility had become more and more unlikely, but he'd be damned if he'd openly admit to Tyler that he'd been wrong about that. The man opened his mouth to protest, but Gene went on, “And even if that ain't the case, yer utterly useless. This ship ain't just a holiday ride, we 'ave business t'do, an' I need capable men for that, no landlubbers. We'll drop ye off at the next port, end of story. Any questions? No? Then mush.”

 

For a few seconds, Tyler didn't move, and Gene already thought he'd start to argue like a petulant child, but the man turned on his heels and walked out, slamming the door behind him.

 

_Slamming the door behind him._

 

In an instant, Gene was out of his cabin, and there was Tyler, walking as briskly as the swaying floor would allow him, and it took nothing to be upon him and grab him by his shoulders – but then Tyler turned, deftly deflecting Gene's hand and pushing him away.

 

“Big mistake!” the smaller man hissed, his eyes ablaze. Gene was unimpressed.

 

“Oh aye? 'ow 'bout this then-”

 

Gene moved again and buried his fist in Tyler's stomach before the latter had time to even blink. He doubled over with a gasp, but Gene had him by his lapels again and forcefully straightened him up. “You listen 'ere sunshine, yer not part o' me crew, but I _will_ keelhaul ye for mutiny all the same if ye insist on bein' a right little prick. As long as yer on my ship ye'll bloody well respect me an' follow me rules, is that understood?”

 

Tyler scoffed. “What difference does it make? None of this is even real.”

 

Gene let go of him as though he'd burned himself, and Tyler stumbled backwards a few steps before regaining his balance. He may be a complete nutter (Gene leaned towards that explanation more and more with every passing second), but Gene still was unsettled by the utter _conviction_ behind Tyler's words. This man really believed what he was saying.

 

The silence between them might well have stretched for a much longer time, but it was shattered by a shout from the crow's nest high above them.

 

“LAND, HO!”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was all too much at once. His head was going to explode any moment now.

Sam stared sullenly into his mug of ale. His stomach was roiling at the mere thought of putting the cup to his lips – it was soiled, dirty, and who knew what the fluid in it consisted of. On the other hand, how was he to cope with the omnipresent stench all around him (though it seemed to bother him less and less – and that again bothered him deeply), the roaring men, the whole thrice damned situation -- how was he to cope with all of this if, not stark drunk? He ran his hands through his hair – Jesus Christ, he was even starting to _think_ like them. Or to curse, at least. He lifted his head to glance around briefly. None of the pirates were paying any attention to him, least of all Gene Hunt. He was currently recounting a tale involving a bastardly huge royal fleet, a load of rum, a daring escape and plenty explosions, much to the amusement of his avid audience.

 

Sam turned back to his drink, clutching the wooden mug with both hands. Why hadn't he woken up yet? And how could a dream be this vivid anyway? A good two weeks had passed since he had first found himself in this mad situation, and there had been no indication of what the hell had even happened to him. There were times where Sam just wanted to scream his head off over the madness of it all. The worst thing was that part of him was starting to... not exactly accept it, but think of it as _real_. And that scared Sam more than anything else. Whenever he fell into the trot of deck duties, or realized with relief that he wasn't as easily seasick as he used to be, he quickly set down everything and closed his eyes, recalling where he actually came from. But it was getting harder...

 

“Somethin' off with yer drink?”

 

The cheery voice yanked Sam out of his brooding, and he looked up abruptly. It was the barmaid – slightly curled, brown hair, an open, even pretty face with twinkling eyes – standing over him, deftly balancing a tray filled with an impossible number of mugs. Something about his expression made her frown, and she asked, “You alright? Y'look like ye've seen a Klabautermann!”

 

Somehow, words wouldn't come to him, and before Sam was able to compose himself someone yelled, “Where's that beer, Annie?!”

 

“Comin'!” Annie called back and was gone without a further word. Sam stared after her for a few more moments before turning back to his own ale. To hell with it. If this was some sort of fantasy, there could be no harm in drinking some of this beverage. None of this was real, so the worst that might happen would be...

 

The mug half raised, Sam froze.

 

What would the worst be?

 

Suddenly, the sound all around him seemed to recede, until he could only hear a faint.... beeping. Regular. Steady.

 

“ _I'm pleased to say, he's out of critical. It was touch and go for the last two weeks, I thought we would lose him... But with his condition stabilized there's still hope. He might wake up from this coma after all.”_

 

Sam's head shot up.

 

“ _Make sure you don't mess up with his medication like last time.”_

 

He looked around wildly. Where was the voice coming from?!

 

“ _Christ, over 50 missed calls on his mobile. Do you hear me, Sam? You've got to wake up soon, you have people waiting for you.”_

 

“I'M HERE!!”

 

The chair clattering down onto the floor was the only sound breaking the silence. Nobody moved. Everybody stared at Sam, who stared back without seeing them, breathing hard. Then he turned his head left, right, up, covered his ears with both hands, trying to make out the noises again, but there was nothing.

 

“I'm here, I'm here, talk to me...!” he muttered fervently, without even realizing. Suddenly he couldn't bear to be in the stuffy pub any longer, but where was the bloody exit, and that chair really was standing in the way, and then Sam gasped as he stumbled out into the cool evening air. He thought he could hear murmuring over the wild hammering of his heart, so he staggered on, barely even registering his surroundings.

 

“ _Hang in there, Sam.”_

 

“What's going on, what's happening to me?! TELL ME!”

 

He covered his ears again, but now the beeping was gone. After a few more steps, Sam stopped, slowly lowering his hands.

 

… _I'm in a coma._

 

He couldn't decide whether to laugh or to cry. So all of this wasn't real, couldn't possibly be. He had had an accident, and now his brain had conjured up a fantasy world to... to what? Pass the time? A bitter laugh escaped Sam's lips, bordering on a sob. He could feel his composure crumble, being replaced by panic and the urge to laugh and laugh and laugh, but there also was a part of him that whispered to keep it the hell together, he already had survived two weeks here, so if his condition had stabilized maybe it would all slowly disappear...

 

_Breathe, Sam. Breathe._

 

Sam took a deep breath. And another. In... out. Slowly, he became aware of his surroundings again. It was quiet; he had strayed from the pub quite a bit, he could barely even see the lights of its windows any more. In fact...

 

Sam squinted.

 

That wasn't even the pub. Where was the pub?

 

… where was he?

 

Sam took another deep breath, willing himself to stay calm. He couldn't even explain why, but he wanted, _needed_ to stay with that pirate crew. But then his rational mind interjected: What if that was what kept him here? They had docked at the port just a few hours ago, and then his condition in the real world had stabilized, apparently. So was he supposed to... to walk out? But where would he go?

 

Sam took a few steps, and realized he had somehow manoeuvred himself into a dark alleyway. There were no windows in the walls around him, and it ended in a wall as well – a blind alley. He looked up, seeing stars twinkle in the sky above him. There was something strangely soothing about that sight, and he had just gathered up enough courage to walk back towards the street, when he heard voices.

 

“Damn that Hunt, couldn't turn up a bloody day later --”

 

“Keep it down ye div, 'oo knows who's listenin'!”

 

Sam froze. Two dark shapes had entered the alley, but apparently they hadn't seen him yet, thanks to the darkness. Slowly, ever so slowly, he edged to the side.

 

“Don't be stupid, there's no one 'ere.”

 

Another step.

 

“An' they'd 'ave ter pass by us ter get out.”

 

A hollow in the wall.

 

“Nobody's gonna mind another sod floatin' in the water.”

 

“... if ye say so.”

 

_What the hell am I even doing?_

 

Sam was pressing himself flat against the wall, half wishing that it would swallow him altogether. At the same time he felt like laughing at himself for getting so immersed in this coma dream. If this wasn't real, why the hell was his heart beating so hard against his chest that he thought he'd crack open any moment? Why didn't he want to be discovered, and possibly end this nightmare?

 

“So we've got ter pull this off t'morrow. Gotta let Trent know...”

 

“We can't, not with Hunt breathin' down our necks!”

 

“But we can't wait! 'nother day an' the navies arrive. This is the best time t'attack, it's now or never!”

 

“Hunt--”

 

“Bugger Hunt! A surprise attack should sort 'im out...”

 

“Yer underestimatin' 'im ye pillock. 'e ain't called the Manc Lion fer nothin'!”

 

“Oh for... right, look, I ain't s'posed ter tell anyone, but the Cap'n's got a plan, alright? A back-up in case summat like this 'appens.”

 

Sam realized that he had stopped breathing. He let out the air in his lungs slowly, afraid that any sound he made would alert the two men to his presence. All thought of real or unreal was forgotten at that moment.

 

“The pub, right? The Portside Arms. That's 'is base. The one with that barmaid, Annie, an' the voodoo barman. Trent's gonna take 'em 'ostage if it's necessary. Hunt's all big talk, but those two're under 'is direct protection. 'e can't do a thing if we 'old 'em.”

 

“But... but the code, ain't that against--”

 

“Oh grow some balls, Bax. The code mean nothin' any longer, no one gives a shit 'bout the blasted code. Just look at Warren--”

 

Sam shifted his weight every so slowly, and felt a stone move under his boot. There was an audible clatter as it settled in its new position. Sam's heart stopped.

 

Both men shot around at once, and there were two sets of a strange metallic sound, which probably had resulted from two sabres being pulled from their scabbards. Blood was roaring so loudly in Sam's ears that he feared he wouldn't even be able to hear their advance on him. His hand moved down to his hip out of reflex, before remembering that he hadn't brought his own blade with him, and then remembering that he had never even wielded a damned blade in his whole life.

 

Now eerily silent, the two men moved towards his general direction, walking slowly. _They haven't seen me yet._ But what use was that now? Any second they would spot him--

 

Rustling. One of the men cursed deftly. Sam nearly jumped out of his skin.

 

“ 's just a blasted rat.”

 

There was rough laughter. “Jumpy as a fishers' wife you are. Good thing no one saw that, eh? C'mon, we better 'ead back, gotta break the news to the Cap'n.”

 

The men retreated, but Sam still didn't dare to move. Only when he felt something small scuttle over his boots did he stumble away from the hollow. His knees seemed to be made of candyfloss, and he staggered against the opposite wall, slowly sliding to the ground. Close, so close, way too bloody close. Sam's mind was reeling as he attempted to calm down. It was all too much at once. His head was going to explode any moment now.

 

“Tyler!”

 

Any moment, surely.

 

“TYLER!”

 

Shut up.

 

“Stop bein' a pain in me arse an' show yerself ye little prick!”

 

Shut up!

 

“Phyllis insists ye come back an kip at the pub 's long as ye 'ave nowhere else to go. Personally, I couldn't give a rat's arse...”

 

“SHUT UP!”

 

Silence. Then steps moving towards him. Sam, still clutching his head, stared at the ground until a pair of off-white shoes ( Loafers? _Seriously, brain, what are you doing._ ) came into view.

 

“... what 'appened back there?”

 

Sam didn't look up.

 

“Half me crew's convinced yer possessed.”

 

That made Sam laugh. He couldn't help it. It was an ugly sound in his ears.

 

“Personally--”

 

“You couldn't give a rat's arse, I know.”

 

“-- I think ye've simply got problems that need solvin'.”

 

Sam chuckled again, humourlessly. “My problems would rock your world.”

 

They lapsed into silence again. Hunt took a step back.

 

“Ye were serious 'bout joinin' the crew.”

 

Sam finally lifted his head. “Does it matter?”

 

“People don't just join pirates. It's the last option.”

 

“Where else could I go?” It had slipped past his lips before Sam could stop it. And it sounded more desperate than he wanted to admit to himself.

 

Another period of silence followed, until Sam couldn't bear it any longer. Slowly, using the cold stone wall as support, he pushed himself up.

 

“I don't need whiney landlubbers in me crew.”

 

That stung. How could a dream hurt so much? It wasn't bloody fair. _Don't abandon me. Please._

 

“I overheard a conversation just now. There was talk about a surprise attack on you. And a hostage situation. Targets are the barman and wait--... barmaid of your pub.”

 

Sam could barely see Hunt's face, but the man's body language was expressive enough. “Who's their Captain?”

 

“Someone called Trent.”

 

Hunt inhaled sharply. “Yer sure? Not just voices in yer 'ead?”

 

Sam wanted to punch Hunt. He did.

 

And was pleased he had caught the bigger man by surprise.

 

“Yes, I'm sure.”

 

“Alright.” Wheezing. “Ye better come back to the pub then, we've got an assault to plan.”

 

“Am I on board?”

 

A pause. Sam's stomach clenched.

 

“Ask again after this business. Ye'll be part of it, but if it goes tits-up it'll be on _your_ 'ead. Nobody plays games with the Gene Genie.”

 

Sam exhaled. “Fair enough. Guv.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Legend of the Klabautermann](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Klabautermann)


End file.
